Tripping Over the Edge of Night
The hallway stank of burned onions and stale pot, the wail of a frustrated child echoed off thin plaster walls. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Derrick fought down the duel sensations of nausea and pounding headache as he fumbled in his pockets for his keys. Inside was cold beer and a flashing answering machine, the latter he chose to ignore until he was on his third bottle.
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“Check’s in the mail,” he grumbled as the irritatingly perky bill collector urged him to submit his pass due payment for the dammed cell phone he’d run over last week.
Second message was much like the first. It seemed like all anybody wanted these days was money while he lived with a perpetually empty wallet and a series of bullshit excuses as to why the dammed check hadn’t been sent. They were catching onto him though. Last week, one little bastard had actually called him on the fact that he’d twice used his mother’s funeral as an excuse why he was late. He’d snarled that he was adopted, to piss off and leave him to grieve both of them in peace. Least there were only few payments left on that bill. He was sick of their bullshit.
Ray’s voice on the answering machine jarred Derrick from his thoughts. Inhaling, he choked on his beer, sputtered and coughed so hard it drowned out every other word.
‘Think,’ ‘home,’ ‘mama,’ ‘week,’ were about all he’d heard. Leaving the beer on the end table, he crossed the room to the machine, a cold sense of dread filling him as he pressed the button to play them again. . Quickly, he deleted the first two in order to get to the third.
“Hey, Derrick, it’s Ray. I think you’d better get back here. Mom’s in the hospital. The doctors don’t think she’ll last the week. They’re advising us to say our goodbys while we can.”
Mashing the button, he played it again. His brother’s voice drowned out the whining pleas of the kids next door.
“Better get back here….get back here….get back here…”
It echoed like an endless loop, a mantra as the walls faded, reds melting to browns and gold, the autumn pattern of vivid trim in rooms smelling of cider and cinnamon. Something banged upstairs, loud and metallic, like the screen door mama was forever nagging them not to slam. It jarred him into action. Beer forgotten on the end table, he rushed to his room, fumbling to grasp the backpack behind the door, never far, never put away. He could fit his life into the ragged depths, leave the pre-furnished apartment as hollow and dusty as it had been when he moved in. Top drawer, check, scooped out in a single armload and stuffed in the bottom of the bag, a little bulkier than the last time. He really needed to stop buying t-shirts. Second drawer was easier, just socks and underwear he rarely wore.
A heavy thunk drew his gaze to the object that had fallen by his foot. Heart pounding, he knelt, fingers trembling as he reached to pick up his father’s knife, remembering another call, a rainy night, nearly laying the bike down twice as he’d torn out of a city 475 miles to the west and much further south. Closer then, but something about seeing that weathered face framed by a casket had sent him fleeing much further than he’d ever run before. Too much like his own, too many things unsaid….too many things said. Grasping the knife, he gently tucked it into the zippered pocket on the inside of the bag, then moved to the bathroom to pack up there. A quick glance in the mirror reminded him he hadn’t showered yet. He brushed at a smudge of oil on his cheek and sighed. The rest of his packing would have to wait.
Steam from the shower soon filled the tiny bathroom. He stripped and shoved his dirty clothes on top of the clean. There would be time enough to sort it all out once he got there. The first smack of heat drew a growl from between clenched teeth and he had to brace one hand against the wall to steady himself. Lowering his head, he let the warmth wash over him, a moment of forced calm.
Come home….come home…come home…
The echo of words brought a renewed sense of urgency and he flipped his hair back, rubbed at his eyes, and then reached for the soap and wash rag. Scrubbing away the grime left over by a shift spent trying to wrangle an old Thunderbird back into working order, he tried not to think too hard. Soft cloth rubbed over vivid tattoos, the details clearer without the grime. He could still recall the prickly sting of the needles going in and out, the slow drag of pain against his skin. His mother had wept the first time she’d seen them, back when there had only been three. It was hard to imagine what she’d think when she saw the full sleeves. Would she even recognize him?